Sundown
by Sabreene
Summary: This is Alistair's story of what happened after his love, Elissa Cousland, spares Loghain at the Landsmeet. This wouldn't leave my head until I wrote it, so here it is. Rated T for now, although it may change to M a little later.
1. Prologue, The Landsmeet

**Sundown**

_

* * *

To you, my second-born, I grant this gift:  
In your heart shall burn  
An unquenchable flame  
All-consuming, and never satisfied.  
-Threnodies_ 5:7.

* * *

He'd been in this room once before. It had awed him with its vivid tapestries and high vaulted ceilings. But not today. Today those beautiful ceilings echoed every ugly word of the crowd around him, threatening to drown him in their deafening roar. Then, he'd thought the room wondrous, more inspiring than any chantry. Now he only wanted to leave it. The cacophony of voices beat at him like surf beats the rock. He had to get out before he crumbled into so much sand, before all this turned from nightmare into reality.

"Alistair," Elissa put her hand on his arm, holding him back.

It was a pleading, placating gesture, one she'd used before. But today he couldn't feel her touch through the armor – the golden armor of Cailan's she'd convinced him to wear. Kingly armor, she'd said. Alistair held in a twisted huff of a laugh. Some king. None of this was as he'd expected. He hadn't expected much – but not this. Anything but this.

The entire chamber stood silent now, a hush falling with one word from Elissa. The sudden absence of sound was more unnerving than the previous clamor. They stared at them, waiting, as if time itself was holding its breath. He looked into Elissa's eyes and saw tears welling there. 'Trust me', they said. A surge of anger filled him and he wanted to shake her, shove her backwards, anything to stop her from looking at him that way. She shouldn't be able to look at him like that, not when she was betraying him. Not when everything they'd worked for, lived for, _loved_ _for_ – he held back a choking flash of pain – was turning to ash around them.

"Alistair," Riordan's accented voice curled gently around his name, echoing Elissa, asking him to understand.

"No." The word tore from his throat, raw and anguished. "You… You all said I should be more like my father, make the hard decisions. Well, I'm making them now. I've heard what my father did to the Banns who betrayed him. The ones who betrayed my grandmother, and let her head be put on a pike." His voice shook with anger, "Loghain betrayed my brother, the rightful king, just as he betrayed the Wardens…Duncan—" his voice broke off and he pointed a gauntleted finger at the man bowing before them on his knees. "He should die a traitors death, and if you won't do it, I will!"

There was a singing, sliding sound of steel on steel as Alistair drew his sword from its sheath, twisting away from Elissa. With a long graceful move, as if he'd practiced it all his life, his sword lifted high and then came arcing down towards Loghain's neck. Shock coursed up his arm as Elissa's blade met it, the two swords scraping, ringing out in the quiet room. An ache blossomed in his chest, as if she had run him through instead of blocking his strike. Loghain hadn't even flinched, his pale blue eyes regarding him impassively. Inhumanly. He wanted to call back his anger, to strike again, but all he felt was defeat. It was over, everything was over.

Alistair let his blade drop to the ground, clattering in front Anora, who stood as impassively as her father, as if she'd not called for his death moments ago.

"Alistair," Elissa stepped toward him, repeating his name again like it would matter. Like anything would matter again.

"I had these dreams…" he heard himself saying, "they don't matter now."

Elissa reached out, as if to touch his face or grasp his arm, but she stopped. The ache lanced through him and he wondered if he had taken a sword sometime during the fight. It could be the only explanation for the crushing pain that squeezed around his heart like a parasitic vine. He opened his mouth to say something witty, something cutting, but no words came out.

Even now with blood smudging her cheek she was beautiful. She'd won the Landsmeet and dueled Loghain all by herself, garnered every treaty herself. She didn't need him.

"Take care of yourself," he said. He didn't even pick up his blade. It had been his father's, after all. And who was he compared to his father? Apparently nobody. Not looking at anyone else, he turned and strode from the room, throwing the chamber doors open in front of him.

As they closed he heard the rush of conversation fill the room behind him, like surf rushing in to fill a void. Anora's strident voice called out, commanding attention. She wasted no time, he thought bitterly. The traitorous harpy. She probably conspired with her father to have Cailan killed. Now she had what she wanted – she was Queen of Ferelden and her father would be hailed a hero, instead of the murderous bastard Alistair knew him to be. Traitors, all of them.

A guard blocked the main doors, holding up a hand. Alistair didn't slow his pace.

"Stop," the man said, continuing to hold his hand up.

Alistair didn't stop. Instead he drew back his fist and punched the guard in the face, slamming him into the door behind him. He felt a satisfied crunch as the man's nose gave way under his armored fist, quickly followed by revulsion as blood poured down the man's face. He wanted to say sorry, but he couldn't. Instead he thrust the door open, clenching his jaw and refusing to look down at the guard, now trying to staunch the flow of blood with a dirty glove.

The bright sunlight outside was blinding, making his eyes water. Alistair wasn't sure where he wanted to go. Where could he go? There was nothing left. Pain unfurled inside him. Loghain was to be a warden. A warden. And Elissa was standing by his side. Alistair walked mindlessly past the stables, not registering the soft nicker his own horse gave as he passed by. He kept going, past the kennels, past the gardens, past the first stone wall and then past the second, walking straight through the towering gates of Denerim's Royal Palace.

Sometime later Alistair found himself on a beautiful cobbled street, elegant houses surrounding him. The sun was going down. How had that happened? The hazy blush of the sinking sun was too soft; its swirling colors sweet pastels. He didn't want to look at it. Instead he looked to the houses. It was suppertime, and he could see the glow of lights through the glazed windows. They seemed to taunt him with everything he would never have. A family. Friends. The camaraderie of brotherhood. He watched as the family inside sat down to dine. He couldn't see their faces or hear their voices, but he imagined they laughed, they were happy. Up and down the street lights were on, people were sitting down with their families.

At least it's not winter, he thought. I would be a frozen out here by morning. A man passed him swiftly by, glaring, and Alistair was forced to step back. His armor clanked into the lamppost behind him. Lampost. He reached his hand out, touching its smooth metal surface. His heart gave a strange twisting flop, remembering his conversation with Elissa. It had been back when he was still trying to figure out who she was, back when things were new, when just standing close to her caused a queer fluttering sensation in the pit of his stomach. It had been a poor metaphor, once he thought it out – but at the time it had been thrilling and made him think…. But none of that mattered now. He wasn't that young innocent flirting with a beautifully fierce noblewoman. He was just a tired and dirty ex-templar ex-warden ex-lover ex-bastard prince, although the bastard part was still true. He'd been ex'd out of his life.

The sky was darkening, the soft pastels losing their place to deeper purples and violets. That was better, it fit his mood. There was laughter and soft music coming from the house in front of them. The civil war and coming blight didn't exist for these people, they lived as if their world was unchanged. Maybe it was, but it wouldn't be for long. Pain and desolation would come to them, just as it had for him.

He'd come to count on two things in the preceding years, two things in the world he thought would never change. One was the Wardens, the other was Elissa. Loghain had taken both. He finally managed to rip everything away. And this time he hadn't even had to kill anyone to do it. Desolation comes to us all, he thought, looking up at the evening sky. Twilight shadows crept up around him, and stars twinkled into existence as he stood there.

How many times had they sat together at night, looking up into the sky? They'd counted stars together. She'd lain by his side by the fire, her head on his shoulder as they made up their own constellations and stories to go with them. She'd been softer at night, as if she could finally shuck off her burdens and just be herself. He'd loved her, in all her myriad of tempers and emotions, but at night… at night she was special. She'd whisper him confidences, even cry – which had made him feel good in a strange way. It had been nice to know he wasn't the only one. And then—

A horse jostled him, nearly knocking him over.

"Get out of the street, fool," an angry voice muttered as another horse and rider passed him by.

But Alistair didn't hear, the pain he'd been feeling since the Landsmeet exploded inside him, expanding like it would rip its way out of chest cavity. Then had come the night Elissa asked him into her tent. The memory ravaged him. He needed to tear into his chest, to let this pain out. Instead he stumbled, armor clanging, barely missing himself as he lost the contents of his stomach. Shaking, he slid down to his knees, new pains cried out at that, the hard armor cutting into his skin. He shook and sweat ran down his face. This was ridiculous, he told himself. But then his stomach twisted, and he bent over again, his throat convulsing as his stomach muscles squeezed tight, heaving, gagging, but there was nothing left to come out.

He lay there on the cobbled street, looking up at the stars. Even they betrayed him.

Another horse turned the corner, hoofs rapping against the stones. It gave a harsh neigh as its rider jerked the reins, trying to avoid running him over. Alistair sat up as the horse pranced around him.

"What are you, buggered in the head? Get out of the bloody street!" The man brought a riding crop down on his head.

This time, Alistair did just that.


	2. Day One

The sky was cloudless and pristinely blue, dotted with soaring white birds. They hovered effortlessly on the warm thermals of air, a beautiful sight, and much too high for anyone down below to hear their raucous squawking. Alistair was as senseless to the sight as he was to the clamoring fanfare of trumpets blaring from Denerim's main streets. He slept. The sun crept up the sky and the birds wheeled away over the ocean, and still he slept. It was a deep dreamless sleep, the sleep of drunks and children who've cried themselves out. At that moment he was both.

"I dare you!"

"No, I dare you!"

A group of ragged children surrounded Alistair, staring down at his prone form. One reached out and touched his foot, then danced away breathlessly.

"That ain't nothing," the tallest one scoffed. "Chicken."

"You do it then, you was the one dared first."

The obvious ringleader screwed up his mouth, glancing from side to side. His freckles stood out darker as his face paled, but all he said was, "Watch me."

The boy stepped forward and bent down next to Alistair, balancing on the balls of his dirty feet. He inspected the sheath strapped to the armored calf carefully, as a hushed silence fell over the group. After a final consideration and a good, long look at Alistair, his hand shot out, nimble fingers plucking the small gleaming dagger free with hardly a sound. His grimy face broke into a smile.

"That's how it's done," he tossed the weapon from hand to hand, raising a challenging eyebrow to the small band of children ranged around him. "Dare me to cut a piece of his hair?"

"Unnnggghhh," Alistair groaned, and the boy leapt away. No one laughed at him, they were all too busy scrambling away through a small hole in the fence. After a moment's hesitation, as if loathe to give up so easily, he turned and ran after them.

"Zevran?" Alistair mumbled, his voice thick. He raised a hand to his face, as if to rub his eyes, but his hand was too heavy and his gauntleted fist smacked into his cheek bone. "Owww!" he yelped, jerked into sudden wakefulness.

Well, that was monumentally stupid, he told himself, opening his eyes blearily. His head ached like he'd lost a drinking match with Oghren. And why was he lying in full armor with his face in the dirt? Had he fallen asleep on watch? Oh, they would never let him live this down. He felt disoriented and nauseous and his mouth tasted vile, like sour milk and rank socks. Maybe he had been drinking with Oghren. It hurt even to lift his head.

"Maker," he groaned again. His whole body was stiff, even his eyeballs felt bruised. He had to blink several times to bring the world into focus. No one was there. He'd thought he heard voices. He blinked again, trying to make sense of his surroundings. He wasn't in camp. He was in an alley. A narrow filthy alley with decrepit houses nearly blocking out the sun.

_Oh_.

He let his head fall back into the dirt, almost relishing its cold, dusty feel against his cheek. The Landsmeet. Yesterday. His temples throbbed as the memories came rushing back, and he squeezed his eyes shut as if somehow that could stop them. But it didn't.

He wanted to sink into the ground. Maybe he should just lay here and wait until someone came to cart him off. Would they take him to prison? Did Grey Wardens do that? Or would they just force him to fight along side Loghain? He'd rather go to prison than to battle back to back with that traitor.

Last night he'd tried to lose himself in the twisting streets of the city, taking turns and alleyways at whim. He'd ended up lost in a maze of side streets and buildings that seemed to loom from the darkness, like some great hulking reminder of how small and insignificant he was. One side street had opened up onto a tiny, dark card den smashed in-between tiny dilapidated storefronts. Men had slouched in the shadows, talking in low voices. He'd waited, just standing there, out in the open. Waiting for what, he wasn't sure. Bandits, thugs maybe. Or even just some hot-headed troublemakers out for a fight. Not one person had accosted him. Not one. That's when he remembered Oghren's flask. Liquid courage for the Landsmeet, the dwarf had said, sliding his prized boot flask into Alistair's armored boot.

It was a good thing he'd waited to try that courage in a bottle. He would've been drunk senseless before the end of Eamon's speech. As it was, the world went foggy somewhere in between the third and fourth swigs. He had no idea what happened afterward. Not that it mattered. What did it matter what he did, he had no effect on anything. He wasn't even a soldier, not even militia, and the armies they'd gathered would all fight without him.

Alistair breathed in dirt and coughed, great hacking coughs that made the world spin. He dragged himself to the closest wall, pain shooting through his muscles as he forced himself into an upright position. His lungs burned, and now his mouth felt dusty and dry as well as tasting like an old soured leather shoe. One ray of sunshine touched his foot, and he looked up. The sun was nearly overhead. It must be almost noon.

What if… what if Elissa hadn't gone through with it? A sudden rush of hope coursed through him, making him feel both sick and elated. What if she realized her mistake after he left and was even now looking for him? She might not find him here, wherever here was.

Alistair stood, his armor feeling doubly heavy and his muscles aching with protest. He steadied himself, fingers scrabbling into the grimy wall, and waited for the blood to circulate back into his limbs. Finally, fingers still dragging along the wall, he made his way down the alley, shuffling out into the overly-bright noonday sun.

From what he could see 'here' was definitely far away from the elegant houses with their beautiful gardens and cobbled streets. The street was packed dirt, deep ruts running along its sides. The surface was uneven – some places were dry and cracking, some were wet with thick, foul-smelling mud. The houses were built too close together, many of the wood frames riddled with insect holes, the clay-like daub spread between the frame rotting and flaking away. Debris found little nooks and crannies to hide in and pile up in, making homes for the rats he saw scurrying along in the shadows.

An overwhelming stench of garbage and unwashed bodies filled his nostrils, the pungent scent of human sewage hitting him a moment later. But it was laced with something else – bread? A few barkers had set up stands, urging passersby to look at their wares. Most the wares seemed to be rags and wilting vegetables. Even so, Alistair's stomach rumbled. He would find something to eat, but not, he told himself, from a stand selling rotten vegetables over a pool of muddied piss.

A stand of dark flat bread looked promising, and for a few bits more he could get a slice of cheese with the bread. It was moldy around the edges, but he'd eaten worse.

"Wotcha want?" The seller's voice was bored and he drummed his fingers against his own rounded belly. His eyes lit up when he saw Alistair in front of him. Or, Alistair thought wryly, saw his armor in front of him.

"Cheese and bread, please." Alistair paused, "and… uhmm… have you heard anything from the castle?" His voice went up alarmingly on the last word.

The man gave him an odd look. "What were you, in a hole this morning? Tell you what, Ser, I got something better for you than this plain fare. One silver. The freshest bread you've ever tasted and cheese like butter. Two silvers, and I throw in the latest castle gossip. You won't regret it. My wife makes—"

"You're a thief, Seamus." The old woman in the cart across the muddy path called out, interrupting. "You'll break those pretty teeth of yours on his bread. His wife ain't worth a spit. My apples are what you want." She motioned at a pile of wizened apples so wrinkled Alistair had to wonder what year they'd been picked. Certainly not last winter. "And _I'll_ tell you all about the Queen's announcements for half that."

"I'd… umm… thank-you very much. I really just…" Alistair stopped, his stomach twisting into a hard knot of hope and sickening dread. "Could you just tell me… the Wardens…?"

"I know all about them Wardens, I'll throw it in for free," she pronounced, narrowing her eyes at her competitor.

"Fine, one silver for both bread and gossip."

"And cheese?" Alistair asked, turning back to the portly Seamus, who looked as if he ate much better than his own fare. The man sighed heavily but nodded. "Deal." Alistair reached for his coin purse only to remember he'd left it behind at Eamon's. "I… uh…" He didn't have any coin. Not one silver, not one bit.

"What is it?" the vendor set his hunk of cheese back down, but his hand didn't leave the knife.

"Uh… this is sort of embarrassing, but I… well, I don't have any coin."

The man's face slowly flushed from red to purple. He hadn't seen quite that shade of color before, not even on the elder templars in the chantry.

"Don't have any coin? You maker-cursed son of a whore!" the words finally exploded, "What do I look like? A sister of the chantry? You bleeding well better get out of my sight, if you know what's good for you. You're driving away paying customers."

"I…" He looked from the blustery round face of the man to the old woman, who now looked as puckered as her apples. One good swipe of his fist and the man would be crying into his bread instead of hawking it. That cheese knife would do nothing against his armor, and the man was all fat and no muscle. Yet, he couldn't summon up the effort even to argue. It wasn't worth it. Alistair turned away.

They would probably all be at Eamon's estate now, maybe enjoying their own repast, and he didn't even have money for a crust of dry bread. Loghain would be a warden. _A warden._ If he hadn't died in the joining. Alistair smiled at that, a dark poisonous hope twisting through him. It would serve her right. She and Riordan could fight the whole blight by themselves. See how they liked that! Alistair found himself stomping down the mud-caked street away from the vendors, hardly looking twice at the shabby man who fell to the ground in his haste to get out of the way.

"Hey, Ser," a voice piped up, running after him. A boy with bright eyes and a smattering of freckles popped up at his elbow. "Them's both just old thieves, don't you let them get you down."

"It's not them."

"It's the castle, right? The queen's words this morning? I could help, I'd even tell you for free, but I'm just so hungry, I haven't eaten in days." The boy held his stomach, a pained expression on his face. "And neither has my baby sister."

"I'm sorry," Alistair said, and he truly was. He knew the boy had to be playing it up, but the hollow cheeks and thin, stringy arms told there was truth within the lies. "I don't have any coin."

"No… but I saw you got an empty sheath there, and what good's a sheath without a dagger?"

"What?" Alistair looked down. The sheath strapped to his calf was indeed empty. He felt the breath knocked out of him, and had to reach a hand out to the boy's shoulder to steady himself. His dagger. His lucky dagger. Duncan had given it to him after his joining, and Elissa had talked a dwarven smith into emblazoning it with a rune while they were in Orzamar. A rune for luck. Alistair felt tears welling, and had a mad urge to laugh. It burbled out of him, the laughter coming sharp, tinged with something dark and uncontrollable.

"Ser?" the thin waif of a boy looked up at him, his voice surprisingly steady. "Did you run out of drink? I know a place you can get it cheap. Tastes worse than whore's piss, my da used to say, but it'll do."

With a last convulsive gasp that was more sob than laugh, Alistair let go the boy's shoulder and sat heavily on a set of old, rickety stairs. "I look that bad, do I? Or is it the smell? Oghren would be proud, one night on the street and already being mistaken for a drunk."

"Ser?" the boy asked.

Alistair didn't reply. The child's eyes were too old for that grubby, skinny face, he thought.

"Hmmph," the urchin gave a small sound, as if deciding something, and crossed his bony arms. "You look right fine and don't smell too ripe, not for these parts. That's the problem, see. No one comes down to this end of the city 'less they got reason. And I knows what a man needing the bottle looks like, I seen it plenty."

"Whatever you've seen, I've no coin for food or drink or news, no matter how cheap," Alistair said wearily, wishing the sun wasn't shining quite so bright.

The boy heaved a sigh, and said reluctantly, as if it were against his better judgment, "Well, I guess if'n you don't you don't. So this is just free then. Don't tell anyone I told ya free, though." He cleared his throat and spit off to the side. "So's this morning. The Queen rode around the city, not here o'course, just in the fancy streets, and told everyone to stop fighting each other and instead to join up her army to fight some monsters," he paused, but seeing he had Alistair's attention continued. "She didn't say so, but I heard she exiled the bastard prince or maybe had him killed, and now all the nobles are all kissing the Queen's toes like they weren't just calling her a dried up old harpy the day before. Army is to leave day after tomorrow, and she's going with them. With no arl, she's leaving the chantry to mind us. As if'n the chantry will do anything but preach at us."

"And what of the Commander?" Alistair asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"The old commander or the new commander? The new commander is that Grey Warden, she's captaining all the armies. I heard her whole family got slaughtered right in front of her, and she drew the symbol of Andraste all over her body in their blood, swearing revenge. They say the spirits of her slain kin rose up and linked their spirits with hers, giving her the power of ten warriors. Do you think it's true?"

"I… I don't know. Some of it, maybe." Alistair's eyes were unfocused, remembering the night she'd finally confided in him. He hadn't known… all through Ostagar and Lothering, he'd gone blithely on, wrapped up in his own woes and not even realizing how much she was suffering. It had mortified him when he learned his mistake, but holding her the night she cried – it had changed him. For the first time he realized what it was to be there for someone else, to take care of someone. He'd strived to be a man she could count on after that, a partner. It wasn't something he was good at, but he'd thought… he'd thought they'd finally come to be equals. Alistair clenched his teeth in an effort to push back the pain opening in his chest, but then the boy continued on with his news and the words struck him like new, fresh blows.

The Hero of River Dane. A Grey Warden.

Alistair's hands fumbled at the sheath on his calf. It wouldn't come free. He threw one gauntlet on to the ground and tugged at the sheath, not caring he'd sliced the tip of a finger in his haste.

"Take it," he said brusquely, shoving the item into the boy's grimy, grasping hands.

"Thanks!" he said, and was off around the corner before Alistair could reply.

It had been a foolish hope. She never changed her mind, he knew that. It'd been stupid even to think it. And to even consider the tainted blood would harm Loghain— He should've known nothing so simple could kill Ferelden's hero. Alistair felt as if he was balancing on the edge of a precipice, looking down into a dark chasm so deep he couldn't see the bottom. Who was he now? He didn't know.

"Spare a coin, soldier?" A hunched woman held out her hand, coming toward him on the stairs.

"No." Alistair pushed past her, almost tripping in the deep rut carved into the road. He had to move, he had to get away. But where could he go? He had no money, no belongings except for Oghren's empty flask.

One thing he knew, he wasn't going back to Eamon's. He just wasn't. They could keep everything, he would find some other way to make money. Or no, he _would_ go back. He'd go back and demand they give him his share. He'd earned a cut from their coffers. Hadn't he killed and stolen and ransacked every corpse they'd come upon, just like her? But they would all be there, probably sitting around talking about him.

Leliana's eyes had been so sympathetic at the Landsmeet – now he imagined her composing a new ballad, one of the bastard prince who would not be king. The man who would never be a Hero. And Morrigan – Oh, she would be oh so pleased. He could hear her voice in his head now, taunting him.

_Fickle, fickle, man. I knew you were stupid, Alistair, but I had no idea it ran so deep. Giving up on your Grey Wardens already? What would your great hero Duncan say? I'm sure he would be sooo proud of you. It's no wonder Elissa chose Loghain. Tell me, Alistair, are you a coward? Or do you just not like to share your toys with someone better than you?_

"Get out of my head!" he yelled, causing a few people to turn their heads. They didn't seem bothered by it. Maybe this was where all the crazed people ended up when they had nothing left. Maybe he should just start stealing. They'd done it often enough. Or, he could be a sword for hire. But – No sword. No shield. Oh, Maker… where had he left his shield? Duncan's shield?

A flood of tears threatened to overwhelm him, water swimming in his eyes until he couldn't see. What had he done? Oh, Andraste, what had he done? He couldn't go back, he couldn't give her the satisfaction. He couldn't face her. But first the dagger, and now Duncan's shield… The great blossoming pain he'd felt at he Landsmeet was back, opening like an immense cankerous sore in his chest. He slid down the trunk of a small tree, its branches hardly spanning six feet, and rested his head on his knees. The hard metal joints of his armor pressed painfully into his forehead, but he welcomed it. He'd take the physical pain. It was better than the dark welling ache inside him. What had he done? _What had he done?_

He'd given Elissa and the Wardens over to Loghain. Handed them to him. But no, no they'd forced his hand. He couldn't watch Loghain become a Grey Warden, it went against everything—everything—they stood for. It was a blight upon the memory of Duncan and their whole brotherhood, just as the darkspawn were a blight upon the world. And he hadn't let her… she'd insisted. She'd stood with Anora against him.

He'd had dreams… such dreams. Foolish, little boy dreams. He should've known better. There was no such thing as true love. How silly, how extremely silly he must've seemed to all of them. All that waiting—

Well, he was done waiting. He stood up. He would find a woman. Then she would see. His stomach gave a great, gurgling growl. First, he needed money. Pickpocketing was out, that was Leliana's speciality. Elissa had picked it up quickly, her nimble fingers as fast with a blade as they were with a pocket—No. He wouldn't think about that. He would—

The delicious aroma of hot food wafted over to him, rich and meaty, interrupting his thoughts.

"Pies, pasties, get your meat pasties here!" A thin man called, long arms simultaneously smacking away the grabbing hands of two skinny, shoeless children.

"What kind of meat is it?" Alistair asked, dubiously looking over the oily pasties as the children ran off. The pies glistened in the sun, but not with the flakey sheen he was used to. More like… he glanced at the vendor… more like the shine of the man's bald pate. A few strands of hair tried valiantly to cover his scalp, but failed miserably. Alistair wondered when the man had last had a bath.

"What kind of coin you got?" The man's voice was appraising and just as greasy as the rest of him.

Alistair shrugged, wondering if this man would get as mad as the last, "Does it matter?"

"Does it matter, he asks! The big strong knight. Wotcha doing down here?" His voice turned defensive. "I'm not selling anything illegal."

"No – I didn't think you were. I was just wondering." Alistair's stomach growled again.

"Well," the man drawled, eyeing him consideringly, "if you got coin…"

He shook his head.

"I don't give food away to beggars, no matter how finely dressed they are. Now, a real knight would have a weapon or two. You steal that armor? No? You take it from your father's armory? He kick you out?" The man's squinty eyes looked Alistair up and down. "Gold armor, if you please. Now _that_ would fetch you more than a few bits. I might know someone…" He let the words trail off and they hung in the air.

"No, I…" Alistair stopped. Why shouldn't he sell it? He didn't need it anymore. Obviously no one cared about Cailan's legacy, not even his wife. They were all too busy seeking glory for themselves. He'd already lost the sword and Duncan's shield. Duncan's shield. The last thing he had to remember him by. Alistair ground his jaw, trying to keep his face hard. "How much do you think I could get for it?"

The man smiled. Alistair noticed he was missing three of his front teeth and a fetid odor wafted from his mouth. He turned his face away from the nasty odor only to see another man hunched in the alleyway, defecating behind sparse shrubbery. If he had been made king, he'd do something to help these people, the children. No one should have to live like this. Even when he'd lived in the stables, at least they had been clean.

"A little squeamish, are ya? I can see why you don't carry weapons. Takes a powerful stomach to gut another person."

"I'm not squeamish. And I've done my fair share of killing, too. More than you can even imagine."

The man laughed, placing a dirty hand on Alistair's shoulder. "Sure you have, son. Sure you have."

Alistair sighed. What was the use? Like the man said, he didn't even have a sword.

"Come on," he nodded towards the other end of the street, where the houses drew even closer together. "I'll introduce you to my friend. He'll make you a good deal."

"The pies…" Alistair started, but then noticed the vendor had collected them all in a grimy scrap of cloth.

"They'll heat again," he said, following it up with a wink.

"Oh." Alistair's stomach dropped like a stone, his hunger fleeing. He wasn't sure what to say to that. He was glad now he'd had no money to buy one, and was already regretting agreeing to meet this greasy fellow's friend. If his deal was anything like the meat pies, it was sure to be a bad bargain.

But what choice did he have at this point? He followed the man down the street.


End file.
